


Say Your Right Words

by Nyxe



Category: Labyrinth (1986), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Gen, probably not what you're thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 04:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3636102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyxe/pseuds/Nyxe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is logic in an illogical situation?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say Your Right Words

**Author's Note:**

> This was started on my Tumblr before SEASON TWO of Sherlock, I think. It's been a while. It is old. Old as balls. Timeline wise, after 'A Study in Pink' and before 'The Blind Banker'. It was a crack suggestion that I decided to take on and the first two parts moldered in obscurity before I found time and an idea to move the damn thing along. In all honesty, this may be it. Many thanks and more apologies.

The mobile rang once before being snatched up and answered quickly.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“’S Lestrade. Got a puzzler for you – I've already sent the address to John. He’s on his way.”

“Dull. Murder?”

“Kidnapping. But you’ll like this one.”

“I doubt it.”

\------

“So what you’re telling me is that the parents were out for the night, and when they got home - both kids were missing?” John watched as Sherlock swirled about the room, closely examining the stuffed bear placed on the bed briefly with his ever present pocket magnifier. Lestrade leaned against the doorframe.

“S’all we have at the moment. The neighbors didn't see anything out of sorts, none of the locks were forced,” He drawled on as Sherlock practically dove under the bed, wriggling his way between the floor and the box-spring, “Anderson’s running the few fingerprints that were found. We’ve got no leads, no motives - the reason we called you in is the girl’s mother is a bit of a celebrity and the last thing we need is media hysterics.”

“Right,” Sherlock pulled himself off the floor and dusted his coat, “I’ll need to see the girl’s room.”

—-

“If you wear a hole in the carpet, Mrs. Hudson will never forgive you,” John turned the page of the newspaper, “And you should probably eat something.”

“It doesn’t make any sense, John!” Sherlock turned on his heel and stalked back the way he came. The effect was ruined slightly by the pile of stuffed creatures that were spread across the coffee table, he grabbed a floppy red one and threw it across the room, “Two children cannot simply up and vanish into thin air. I have no data! How do I have no data? I need data!”

“You need to calm-“

_“I cannot make bricks without clay!”_

Silence fell, sharp and heavy as Sherlock threw himself on the couch in a fit, still muttering. John gave him precisely three seconds to indulge before setting the paper aside and clearing his throat. Sherlock snarled.

“So,” John folded his hands together, if Sherlock was going to behave like a child then he would treat him like one, “What do we know?”

“Nothing. Anything of use was destroyed when they let those blundering idiots at the Yard into that house.”

“Sherlock -“

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed, “There was nothing there, John. Nothing out of the ordinary. If there were drugs, threats, even a hair out of place - I would have something to work with. As it is, there is nothing. Just a bit of dog fur and glitter.”

John glanced at the pile of junk on the coffee table and a bit of orange caught his eye. He leaned forward and snagged the corner of the book, “What about this?”

Sherlock ‘hrrmph’ed from his spot on the couch without looking as John thumbed through the book’s well-worn pages and continued talking, “It’s obviously been read more than a few times - her stepmother said that she liked pretend. Bit of play-acting gone wrong? Maybe she met someone in the pa-” He was interrupted by Sherlock abruptly rising from his flounce and stalking over to snatch the book from his hands, turning it over a few times.

“This was a gift - probably from her absent, actress mother. Most likely a favorite, judging by the pattern of wear on the spine and tattered corners. Pages stained about the edges - skin oils, water-damage,” He squinted at a suspicious blot, “It was dropped once in a -” Quick sniff, “- lavender bath. There’s one particular page that was turned to frequently, you can tell by the way the book falls open, the print is faded in one section from repeated contact with a thumb,” Sherlock held the print up to the light to study it more closely, “It’s a fantasy story obsessed over by a hormonal, teenage girl who fancied herself a tragic heroine.”

John leaned forward, “So do you think that’s it then? She met someone in a park during one of her read-throughs and decided that they’d do a little re-enacting with her baby brother while her parents were to dinner?”

Sherlock tossed the book back to the table, “Rubbish.”

“Well it’s not like you’ve got anything better!”

“So she ran off with her little brother in a fit then! Bravo, Doctor Watson, you are in top form this evening! Nothing was taken - no money, no jewelry - Keys were all accounted for, doors locked. No hidden rooms, no secret hallways - how did they leave? Bedroom window was open, flowerbed below untouched. If she had gone out the window it would have been trampled. Oh wait! She likes fairy stories! Maybe the elves took them!”

“At least I’m trying- you know what? Never mind. You’re obviously the expert and you don’t need me.”

“Oh no, John, don’t go! The gnome’s afoot!”

John glared at him, “Stop that. You’re being ridiculous.”

Sherlock sneered, “Why? Afraid that the pixies will strike again? It would be a vast improvement over the useless suggestions you keep trying to pass of as legitimate theories. In fact, I wish the goblins would take you away right now!”

And that was when the power went out.

\----

_"MRS. HUDSON!"_

Sherlock stomped down seventeen steps to bang unapologetically at the door to 221A, "I told you I'd have the rent next week - turning off the electric is uncalled for - I have several experiments running that are in critical stages -"

He found himself cut off as the door swung open. Mrs. Hudson tightened the sash to her dressing gown, " _Sherlock Holmes!_ Do you have any idea what time of night this is?"

Sherlock scowled and pulled himself to full height, looming in the doorway, "Irrelevant! Why is the electric in 221B-"

"The power is out because you haven't paid it, Sherlock!" She pointed a chastising finger at Sherlock's chest, "I can forgive the rent but I don't pay for your electricity!"

He huffed, "I told you I'd have the money next-"

"That doesn't really matter now, does it dear?" Mrs. Hudson gave him a tight smile, "Honestly, if you can't handle the fees on your own, you either need to move out or get a flatmate."

"I don't need a flatmate! I have J-" Something skittered on the edge of his peripheral vision and he turned sharply, "What was that?"

"What was what?"

Sherlock held up a hand, peering into the shadows of the hallway. After a moment, he shook his head, "I - Nothing. Just thought there was something there for a moment. Trick of the light."

Mrs. Hudson patted him on the shoulder, "Go to sleep, dear. Goodness knows how long you've been awake. You can call the company in the morning."

"Right," Sherlock trailed off in confusion, "Yes. In the morning."

"Goodnight, dear." The door clicked softly behind her, leaving Sherlock in the black hallway.

\------

The morning found Sherlock irritably stalking into New Scotland Yard, scowling at everyone and everything. He had been kept on hold for an hour before being transferred to some keyboard-riding idiot who refused to listen to reason until Sherlock managed to find one of Mycroft's pilfered credit cards that hadn't been cancelled yet. By then it was too late to save the liver.

He swirled into Lestrade's office, "I have a theory about the disappearance. I need to know everything about the mother - preferably a tour of her flat and an interview."

Lestrade blinked over the rim of his coffee mug, "What disappearance?"

Sherlock sighed, was everyone mad this morning?, "The disappearance! Williams? Two children? You only asked me in on it yesterday, Lestrade, truly your tiny mind can remember that."

"Sherlock," Lestrade set his coffee down and leaned forward, "Unless there's something you're not telling me - I don't know what you're talking about. We haven't called you for a case since that stunt you pulled with that barmy cabbie."

"And I told you I had nothing to do with-"

"You had Wilson's case in your flat and a dead man at your feet - just what was I supposed to think?"

" _I was acquitted!_ " Sherlock roared, jumping to his feet in the face of the old argument, "You had no evidence - no reason-"

"I had every reason!" Lestrade shouted back before reining himself in tightly and taking a deep breath. Once he had composed himself, he took another swig of his cooling coffee, "The fact of the matter is, I don't trust you enough to put my job on the line when you decide to run off. Now get out of my office before we both do something we regret."

\------

Idiots. All of them.

Smoke curled in the air, tracing fluid patterns on the breeze until a forceful exhale disrupted the delicate strands with a frustrated cloud. Sherlock tugged his sleeve farther down his wrist before taking another drag of his cigarette.

They weren't necessarily his preferred brand, but desperate times call for desperate measures and the satisfaction of filching them from Lestrade’s jacket more than made up for it. The leaning in an alley was merely to complete the aloof, self-important look.

Blind bloody sheep who don’t know how to use their own eyes. He took another draw, inhaling deeply as he watched the ever-present unwashed masses hurry along the street. 

“All right there, mate?”

Sherlock peered at the voice. It came from a well-dressed man with slicked back hair and a pointed smile. He blew smoke in his direction.

“I don’t recall asking you for your concern so to put it in words that you may actually understand, go away.”

The man’s smile only grew wider, “Fair enough. I just wanted to offer you a trade.”

“A trade,” Sherlock snorted at the idea, “What could you possibly want to trade?”

“A joke for a smoke.”

Sherlock took the moment to savor a luxurious inhalation of tar and nicotine before turning his head on the exhale, “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am! Y’see, I had a very busy night last night – business was booming, I must say – and I’ve been stuck in the resulting negotiations all morning with barely a break for lunch.”

“There’s a shop just around the corner. Buy your own.”

The man’s smile grew wider, “Oh I would, but I seem to have left my wallet back at the office,” He made a show of patting his trouser pockets before spreading his hands, wide and empty.

Sherlock scowled, “Right,” he growled, rifling through his pockets. His fingers brushed a familiar texture and he pulled out a heavily rumpled fiver, “Take it and leave. I don’t care, just fuck off.”

“I’m not looking for charity, mate. Just a fag, really.”

There was nothing stopping him from leaving, Sherlock thought, it would be easy enough to simply walk away. He should, really. He would.

But there was something about the way the stranger stood, grinning at him like a jackal that both annoyed and intrigued him. They weren’t even his cigarettes anyway – what could possibly be the harm?

Silently, he shoved the bill back into his pocket and offered the crumpled packet of Dunhills to the man. The blonde murmured his thanks, drawing out the last cigarette and sticking it between his teeth. He patted his pockets again, muttering slightly before sighing and turning back to Sherlock.

“Would you mind?”

Sherlock scowled and pulled out his lighter.

“Many thanks.”

The flame danced in front of the man’s face for a moment, casting twisted shadows across his features that made Sherlock blink. Just as fast, however, the effect was over and he slouched against the dirty bricks without any indication of care for his suit. He took a deep drag and held it before exhaling through his nose with a look of contentment. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Now then, where was I?”

“You were leaving.”

“Now, now then, Sherlock Holmes. I believe I owe you a trade.”

Chills went down his spine, “How do you know my name?”

“Wasn't difficult,” The man took another drag, “Tall, scrawny, and wearing a coat worth a month and a half’s rent. I had a good reference.”

“How-“

“Y’see, when I said business was booming last night, you didn't really think I was talking about stock exchanges did you?” He offered the lighter back, Cheshire grin not leaving his face.

Sherlock took a moment to look closely at the man. Something was, well, wrong about him. His clothes were impeccable, obviously bespoke. Not a hair out of place, cleanly manicured fingers, immaculate shoes. No wallet, no watch, nothing about him that could be construed as questionable or gleaned for information. He was a veritable clean slate. More data required.

“Can I borrow your phone?” Sherlock asked suddenly, retrieving his lighter from the man’s long fingers and dropping it into his pocket, “Mine gets shit reception in this part of town.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys.”

Sherlock froze, his own voice echoing in his ears, _‘I prefer to text. Afghanistan or Iraq?’_

“John.”

“There’s the face I was looking for,” the man crowed, taking another drag on his cigarette, “I’m a bit disappointed in you, Sherlock. I was told you’d cotton on much faster than that.”

“Where is he.”

“That would be cheating. There are rules to this you know. Besides, why give you the answer you already have?”

Sherlock didn’t even blink, “The book. It was the book.”

“Very good.” He stubbed the cigarette out on the bricks behind him and dropped the butt to the alley.

“You’re from the bloody book. You’re the Goblin King. Where are the children? Where is John?” Sherlock’s head was spinning, “You’re not real. How-“

The Goblin King dismissed his line of questioning with a wave of his hand, “Right full of questions you are. But you always have been, haven’t you? Dissecting house kill at seven. Sneaking into advanced anatomy classes at twelve. Stealing your brother’s textbooks at fifteen.”

“What do-“

“You’ve been a busy lad, haven’t you? The children are safe – moral teachings and all that rot. They were returned last night. But you. The logical machine at the mercy of the fantastic. It’s almost delicious.”

Sherlock had slowly been rounding on the man during his little speech, quickly judging the fastest way to shake the information out of him if necessary, “You haven’t answered my question.”

“And I’m not going to.” And at that, Sherlock lunged, grabbing wildly only to have the man disappear underneath his fingers, the momentum carried him forward, through the brick wall of the alley, and he stumbled over a gnarled shrub.

Definitely not in London.

He was on a hill, surrounded with oddly glittering red clay and half-dead flora. In the distance he could see miles and miles of a twisting maze, nearly making his eyes water. The voice of the Goblin King floated on the air.

“Now then, seeing as you’re a bit more advanced than my usual visitors, I’ll have to change the rules slightly. Normally, you’d get thirteen hours to solve my Labyrinth.”

Sherlock snorted, tracing a likely path through the maze and committing it to memory, “Predictable. Superstition. I’ll only need eight.”

“You only get seven.”

“Make it five.”

And with than, Sherlock went to work.


End file.
